


One More Novel

by indigospacehopper



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: AU, Alternative Meeting, Eventual Johnlock, Flashbacks, Gen, John is a Saint, Johnlock - Freeform, Library AU, M/M, Not Canon Compliant, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pining Sherlock, Tags Contain Spoilers, The Florence Nightingale Effect
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-08
Updated: 2015-12-08
Packaged: 2018-05-05 16:39:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5382686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/indigospacehopper/pseuds/indigospacehopper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>However, he had barely finished the first sentence before he found himself staring at the globe again. This time, there was someone inspecting it.<br/>Whether he chose to admit it or not, Sherlock had always been somewhat defensive about the globe. It wasn't his globe, and therefore knew he shouldn’t be so protective over it. Yet, if he ever spotted a person pressing their dirty fingers to it, he would always feel his blood boil. This person, it seemed, was showing a particular interest in Australia.</p><p>--</p><p>The library was the place of dreams, and Sherlock relished amongst its shelves. It was his. It was his home. </p><p>Until someone, a very rude someone, drops a book in his lap.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One More Novel

**Author's Note:**

> More notes will be added later on, but for now I'll leave them off because of spoilers. 
> 
> Hope this is alright, please let me know what you think? Thanks :)
> 
> \- indigospacehopper

Silence stretched out like a clumsy beast, ramming itself headlong into bookshelves as at charged hungrily down the aisles. It tumbled down the spiralling staircases like the water from an overflowing bath on the floor above; skipping and bubbling as it washed over eardrums and landed in a heap in the floor, where it then proceeded to shake itself off; ignoring the cuts and bruises as it clambered back onto its feet, before carrying on its rampage at breakneck speed. It muted out the louder sounds with a hazy drone; amplifying the quieter creaks of cracked floorboards instead. 

It ran wild through the building, barely missing the rich mahogany shelving which stood to attention in sharp lines across the expanse room; stationed in high blockades parallel to the arched windows on either side, filtering through the soft early morning sunlight. Dust particles danced and swam in the air, settling on the books that were more unloved than the rest, waiting for someone to run their finger across the cracked leather spines in search for the subject or story they wanted. 

Stationed in the middle of the army of shelving stood a large sphere. Blotched and mottled brown owing to the varnish; it lay entrapped in a brass ring that kept people away. It was the centre piece of the magnificent library. A large sphere that couldn’t be touched. It was essentially a mindless, strangely nostalgic object that Sherlock desperately wanted to run his hands over. Because he couldn’t touch it, it made him want to even more.

Not that he’d barred all thoughts of actually touching it, however. If he crouched down he’d be able to wrap his arms around the middle of the vast sphere and still not be able to hold it all. It was too big, and his arms simply weren’t long enough. He wasn’t too pushed to try it, though. But that didn’t stop him from loving it. He could take in all of Southeast Asia with a single glance, and then immediately switch to North America, before pausing to smile fondly at Europe. The library provided him with the perfect means of travel.

Through the pages of thick, hardbound copies of tales about adventurers, to small paperbacks of a little known author with stunning originality; Sherlock relished in what each book had to offer him. Lapping up every story he could lay his hands on, and then finding his favourite, most secluded spot and settling down with his chosen book. He loved it, but he was quickly running out of things to read.  
Each sentence was a gift to him, each character was a new best friend, and each ending was a new beginning.

He shuffled comfortably where he sat, legs tucked underneath him as he sunk further down into his favourite black armchair. From this spot he could just about make out the globe perched on its spindle, but that was only if he craned his neck far enough to peer around the slithers of bookshelves. He chanced a careful glance at it as he flicked over the pages of his latest book, just to check that it was still there, before carrying on with page 372.

However, he had barely finished the first sentence before he found himself staring at the globe again. This time, there was someone inspecting it.  
Whether he chose to admit it or not, Sherlock had always been somewhat defensive about the globe. It wasn't his globe, and therefore knew he shouldn’t be so protective over it. Yet, if he ever spotted a person pressing their dirty fingers to it, he would always feel his blood boil. This person, it seemed, was showing a particular interest in Australia.

Sherlock watched from where he sat as the head librarian, Mrs Safely, made her way over to the newcomer.

“Can I help you with anything, dear?” She had asked, hands clasped in front of her.

When Sherlock had first started going to the library she had guided him towards the right genre of novels. At that time, all Sherlock had cared for were the books of definitive good and evil. Set villains who not a soul could empathise with, spectacular heroes who had the world rooting for them, and a plethora of cliched plot devices. His favourites now were the ones that involved murders – the more dramatic the better. That didn’t stop him from straying back towards the Enid Blyton section whenever he needed cheering up, though.

He looked up, and the person grunted something in reply. Mrs Safely smiled at him, before gesturing to a set of shelves just a short way off from where Sherlock was sat. The man nodded his thanks, and disappeared off into the maze of shelves. Sherlock sighed and shuffled back down in his seat, allowing the silent beast to claim him once more.

How long Sherlock had been coming to the library he couldn't quite remember. All he remembered was that it was a particularly windy Wednesday, and that he had snuck off from Mycroft. Mrs Safely hadn't batted an eyelid as the youngster waltzed in; dripping from head to toe and saturated to the skin with the rain. He made his way over to the radiator, deposited his not-so waterproof coat on top of it; and then made his way over to the main desk.

“Mph,” Mrs Safely had sighed absently as Sherlock stood on his tiptoes, clenching onto the front of the desk so as not to fall over. Even with being heightened by balancing precariously on his toes, it was still very difficult for him to see over and look at what the woman was doing. He was a very short child, and always had something to say about it when he acted as ‘piggy’ whilst playing Piggy in the Middle with his father and Mycroft. How was it fair that the smallest person was the one who bullied for their height? Tall people may have a few jokes thrown in their direction, but heaven forbid anyone be short. His growth spurt had occurred when he was fifteen. Now, he wouldn’t think twice before simply jumping over the reception and rifling through Mrs Safely’s files, but that was the present. The past was a different story entirely.

“I suppose you'll want the children's section,” Mrs Safely continued, not looking at him. Sherlock nodded, feeling his partly dried hair bounce up and down. It would go frizzy later, he knew, and Mycroft would tease him for it like nobody’s business. “Come on then.”

Sherlock took a step backwards as Mrs Safely stood up, making her way around the desk with a book clenched tightly in her hands. Her purple ballet pumps were silent on the floorboards, with Sherlock being equally as quiet as followed closely behind.

“Here you are,” Mrs Safely said, separating two books with one hand and slotting the new one in between the two of them. Sherlock had grinned excitedly, and that concluded his first introduction to the library. Short and sweet: just the way he liked it.

Since then, he'd spent far too long haunting its hallways.

He turned over the page, smiling to himself as the library slipped back into silence.

Nobody bothered him when he was with a book, and even when he was prowling the shelves in search of a new read no one gave him a second glance. Nobody spoke to him, either. It was as though he was invisible. He was never knocked; never chastised; never forced into doing the things that he didn't want to do. Mycroft didn't disturb him. He hadn't seen him since he'd first walked through the great wooden doors, in fact. Something that Sherlock was most definitely not complaining about.

“Whoops--”

The book landing in Sherlock's lap caused him to start suddenly. He was about to fire off a canon of profanities as he gripped onto the arm of the chair, glaring at the twat of a man before him - until he paused: Where were his manners?

Keeping one thumb wedged securely on the page of his own book so as to not lose his place, he carefully picked up the stranger’s book and handed it to him.  
“Here,” he offered, feeling the novel leave his hand.

The book-dropper tilted his head, and Sherlock mirrored him. He was shorter than the average man, with jet black hair that was so well gelled Sherlock wondered if it would crack should he bend a strand of it. Throughout all the novels Sherlock had ever read, he'd never encountered a set of eyes as black as the ones scouring him. A gulp dissolved in the back of his throat as the wide black holes bore into his own blue ones.

“I must be going out of my mind,” the man smiled, more to himself than to Sherlock. Gingerly he accepted the book, but Sherlock’s gaze stayed on him, keenly curious about what the Irish accented man was talking about.

“What?” Sherlock quizzed, interest spiking.

It was a very rare occasion that Sherlock spoke to someone. It had been such a long time that he hardly remembered the last discussion he'd had. Something about his mother swarmed through his mind through, before vanishing in the place of curiosity for the person conversing with him. His voice was deeper than he remembered it.

“You don't seem mad,” Sherlock began, recalling the different forms of madness he'd read about. Not that it was the right terminology, Sherlock knew; yet, the newcomer’s demeanour did nothing except draw Sherlock towards Alice in Wonderland, and in doing so the famed Cheshire Cat. Despite having only muttered nine words in total, Sherlock was forcibly reminded of the fickle feline. It made his stomach jolt. 

He had never liked that cat, even in the film. The morals were always difficult to read; where the character was coming from and where they were inevitably going to. There was something about this man that sparked an inkling of trepidation in Sherlock. Maybe it was his eyes, with visible bags underneath that had tried to be covered up with some sort of foundation – expensive foundation, too, Sherlock noted. Either he was horribly tired, or maybe he was simply irritated, which was perhaps why Sherlock was having a hard time to experience a good first impression of the man. Certainly, Sherlock knew he’d definitely make a better first impression if he was awake, rather than tired, but this man set a notion of unease rippling through Sherlock, and he straightened his back. Around him, the soldier bookshelves seemed to heighten and widen, as though puffing out their chests to threaten the man gazing at Sherlock. He frowned, watching him closely.

The man shook his head at the floor, and Sherlock’s eyebrows rose.

“Oh well,” the man smiled, and without so much as a glance towards Sherlock, departed back down one of the aisles looking somewhat dishevelled. The shelves remained mighty, forcing Sherlock to alter his theory. 

This man, with the bookshelves rigid as he walked alongside them was no Cheshire Cat: He was the bloody Red Queen.

Sherlock felt distinctly ruffled. The man had left, but his actions and voice still remained hanging over Sherlock like an eerie phantom. What on Earth had just happened? He sandwiched his thumb in between the two halves of the book, standing up and gripping it with the rest of his fingers so as not to lose his page or drop it. The library was just as silent as it had been before, yet an underlying crackle of static electricity made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end; his spine rigid as though someone had stuck a wrought iron beam along the length of it. It was as though the rampant silent beast was afraid, and Sherlock had caught onto the fearfulness.

Slowly, he began searching for the mystery man who had been too rude to offer so much as a 'sorry' or a 'thank you'.

"Did you find the book you wanted, love?" A kindly voice sounded, attracting Sherlock's attention.

"Yeah..." As the Irish-accented man replied, and Sherlock made a quick beeline over to the source, stopping in the next aisle to them as he listened in; his back pressed against various anthologies.  
There were two of them now, the black haired man and another he hadn't seen before. Sherlock trod carefully, desperate not to catch their attention. He watched on as the other man frowned.  
"Are you sure? If they don't have it here we could always try a different library. I know you said you only needed it for one reference, but its dirt cheap online--"

The Irish man shook his head.

"No, John, this is the right book," he held it up for 'John' to see. John sighed and folded his arms across his chest, just for something to do with them. He looked uneasy, but not unsociable to the point that he didn't know how to act in ordinary conversations. It struck Sherlock as odd, at any rate, as John gazed sympathetically at the man before him, who continued talking. "I just... Do you ever feel like you're being watched?"

John shrugged; taking the book out of the other's hands and reading the blurb, then flipping it back over to view the front cover. The frown likes etched across his face didn't dissipate. 

"I suppose," he reasoned. "But there're CCTV cameras everywhere these days, I don't think anyone can go for a full 24 hours without being watched by someone." He smiled, putting the book back into the Irish man's hands. "Come on, people will talk if they think the great Jim Moriarty spends his afternoons in a library. Especially seeing as most of the blokes who work for you can't actually read, they'll feel like you're betraying them,” John joked, but Jim shrugged, not seeing the funny side.

"As long as they can shoot and know how to cover their tracks without dropping me in it, I don't care whether they can read or not. It's part of the job description to be stupid. That way they don't ask questions.”

From the behind the bookshelf, Sherlock watched the display with interest. Jim, as was apparently his name, had gone back to flipping the pages of his new found book over, after snatching it back from John. Except, Sherlock had all but lost interest in him, and had found it again in John instead.

He was roughly the same height as Jim, but the two couldn't have been more different. While Jim's hair was the colour of the dark night sky, John's was the fading grey of the moon. Light, bright, with the same discoloured white. Yet there were still traits of blond leaking through.

His overall build was different to Jim's, too. Jim was wearing a bespoke, fine-cut suit. It was of a rich navy material; almost black; with not a speck of dust visible. His shoes shone, making the reflection of the lights above look like the moon against the black oxfords. It was clear that he was muscular underneath the suit, although not as strong as the man standing opposite him.

John was dressed in simple cable knit jumper, of greying cream colouring, with a black jacket thrown over it. His jeans were simple, nothing like the ironed pins that adorned Jim’s legs, and although his brown shoes must have cost him considerably more than the rest of his clothing, they still weren't too expensive. Sherlock took it all in, frowning as he became more confused. He watched on as John frowned response to what Jim had said, the lines becoming prominent across his face. He looked tired, too, but it wasn't a sleep deprived tired. Where Jim looked like he’d had one too many early mornings, John looked like every day was a battle. Apparently, Jim had touched a nerve.

“Oh come on, babe, you know I didn't mean it like that,” Jim started, as John folded his arms across his chest. Jim leaned forward and wrapped his arm around John’s shoulder, pulling him closer into him so they were mere millimetres apart. Sherlock could see the tips of John’s ears going pink. “You're one of my best men; if you weren't then I wouldn't have promoted you as highly as I did. You being able to read as just a… bonus,” he grinned.

“I'm a doctor, of course I can read,” John scoffed. “And the highest promotion is ‘the boss’s boyfriend’, is it?” He asked as his scowl broke out into a smile.

“Well it's hardly my fault you're such a good looking chap,” Jim teased, and John’s smile widened, head bowed as he leaned on his partner’s shoulder.

“Meaning that you only hired me for my looks,” John pointed out. “Honestly Jim, I had no idea you were so deceitful--”

Sherlock tuned out, deciding that nothing interesting was going to come out of the conversation now, especially seeing as they'd reached the point where they very badly flirting with one another.  
He leaned backwards, the top of his temple brushing against the underside of particularly high shelf. Maybe Jim was always a bit rude; he was a ‘boss’, after all. Did anyone really like their boss?   
After all, John had said something about a boss, and while it was possible that he was dating someone else, their displays of affection towards one another indicated otherwise. He was easy enough to read, the soldier. The haircut, growing out now, still retained some of its own military style. He was tense; permanently on guard. Ready for anything to happen and prepared to spring into action. Easy enough to deduce.

His clothes weren't expensive, as Sherlock had already noted, but with an apparently wealthy boyfriend he should be able to afford finer things to wear. Or rather, be bought more expensive things. Yet, he remained in the cheaper brands. Why was that? Was it all clothing from before they'd gotten together? Or was John really not much of a scrounger? But the shoes were expensive. Sherlock frowned.  
“I forgot to ask,” Jim started talking again, and Sherlock found himself listening intently, coming out of his musings about John’s clothing. “How did it go last night? You went straight to bed, and when I came up you were fast asleep. Was everything alright?”

From behind the shelf, Sherlock peered around the corner again. Both Jim and John had separated now, with John rubbing his face with his hand, smudging it a rich pink.

“Yeah, well, as well as expected,” he said, not looking up. “I just, it was just a job, wasn't it? Same as any other.” He paused, and Jim tilted his head sympathetically. “It's just not what I expected, you know? I mean, I knew that one day I'd leave Afghanistan, but I didn't think I'd be coming back to London to shoot more people. It wasn't really on my--”

“Keep your voice down,” Jim snarled, suddenly looking daggers. While John had been talking, Jim’s eyes had been as round as saucers, full of sympathy and kindness. Now however, they were back to the coal; dark and setting alight with anger as John clenched his jaw shut, realising that he had upset Jim.

John didn't say a word, nodding curtly instead at the silent communication between them both. Whether Sherlock had momentarily gone deaf or whether they were talking to one another telepathically was a mystery to him, but something had been said between and it was clear that John had been completely put-down by Jim.

“Good. If you're thinking of leaving, you need to let me know,” the threatening tone in Jim’s voice caused Sherlock to take a step backwards. What had, really only a few seconds ago, been an apparently perfectly happy relationship, was turning sour before his eyes. John wasn't looking at Jim, but Jim still hooked his index finger and placed under John’s chin, lifting his head. “Remember what happened last time?”

John winced.

“That was different,” he protested, defensive tones establishing themselves strongly against the fearful ones. “I was burgled; of course I was going to go to the police. I wasn't about to sit around doing nothing so that I could be burgled again. It's not my fault one of your low-lives saw me there, and it's definitely not my fault that you jumped to the wrong conclusion when they came running to you.”  
“You miss my point,” Jim supplied. “Remember what happened? Remember how you felt? Remember how you felt after I'd dealt with you? Remember how that made me feel?”

Behind the bookcase, Sherlock took in a sharp intake of breath. Manipulative, much?

“That's not…” John started, but Jim raised an eyebrow and John stumbled in his speech. “I – I mean, yeah. I’m sorry, Jim. Sorry I brought it up.”

“There's a good boy,” Jim smiled, his voice thick with misplaced warmth. The condescension in his praise made Sherlock want to kick something; Jim pulled John forward, wrapping his arm around his neck and pushing the forlorn man into his torso, so as to act out one of the most false hugs Sherlock had ever been forced to witness.

“Now come on,” Jim pushed John away, smiling brightly. “This book isn't going to read itself.”

He held it up, and Sherlock only then took in what it actually was. As he read the cover, he blinked profusely. That probably wasn't good.

“Actually,” John began, unfazed by the topic of the book. “I think I'm going to stay here for a bit,” Sherlock made a mental note of how quickly Jim’s expression changed again. Apparently John noticed it too, because he hurriedly began stuttering an explanation. “I want to find a book I was reading a while ago, when I was in Afghanistan,” he supplied. “My friend over there published it. Thought it might give it a read, if I can find it.”

That was a lie. Sherlock saw it clearly. The hesitation in his voice was the only confirmation he needed; the stumbling over the rushed words like a river over rocks. Along with the picking at his cuticles as he shuffled his weight onto one foot from the other, it was easy to see just how anxious really John was.

Sherlock lent forwards a bit more, gripping onto the thick wooden side of the bookcase. As he did so, his hand slipped on the varnished surface and he stumbled, slamming one foot down with such force that he thought Mrs Safely would come running. He no longer had the shelf for a shield, and was standing only a few metres away from where Jim and John were conversing in full view of the pair of them. The high bookcases mocked his idiocy, and he felt an embarrassed blush rising in his cheeks.

Not wanting to see the result of his clumsiness, Sherlock hesitantly glanced towards them, worry etched into his face.

“Did you feel that?”

Several books had fallen off the shelf where Sherlock had accidentally pulled them off. John was gawping slightly, brows knitted together as he glared at Sherlock, but Jim’s reaction was a bit more interesting. He was craning his neck behind him, trying to see what John was looking at.

“Small earthquake, maybe?” He suggested, turning back around to face him. “What're you looking at?”

John shook his head, going back to look at Jim, although he kept stealing quick glances towards Sherlock, who was doing his best to pick up the books as quietly as possible. Jim frowned, still oblivious to Sherlock being there.

“Okay. I'll send someone to pick you up in an hour or so. Is that alright, babe?” Instead of looking at Jim, John remained staring at the place where Sherlock had been. Jim noticed this, and his short-tempered fuse blew once again. “What the hell are you looking at?” He demanded, squaring up to John. John quickly backed out of his trance, going slightly pale as Jim took a step closer. There was hardly room for breath between them; John’s chest seemed to have stopped rising and falling under his thick jumper as he stared fearfully up at the man; his whole being frozen as Jim set ablaze.

“John, you need to snap out of this right now. There's nothing there, take a look for yourself.” Jim grabbed John roughly, and Sherlock quickly scarpered out of the way, tripping over his feet as he rounded the corner and John was dragged to the place where Sherlock been mere seconds before. “See? Nothing.”

Sherlock watched from afar, and a part of him immediately regretted running off. He wanted to prove John right and Jim wrong. If he’d stayed, Jim would’ve looked like an idiot, and Sherlock really did like making people look like idiots.

“You're- you’re right…” John spoke quietly, staring at the ground.

“See? Now pull yourself together. Someone will be here in an hour to pick you up, and that book had better be a bloody good one.” He turned around, leaving John still standing transfixed in the same spot. A few rows away, Sherlock exhaled loudly.

Interesting morning.


End file.
